fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Serial – Three: Purged

man over toilet bowl

I’ve been asked if I will ever write ‘light’, as if the only emotion I have within me is ‘dark’. When that happens, I usually shrug. Not the literal kind, with shoulders that move, and a face like an open-mic comic delivering a punchline. But an internal shrug that says, “You wouldn’t understand”. These words of mine, in their form and ordered on the page, are not an extension of all that is within me, but an expression of all that must be purged out of me.